


there's no living with the killing

by AmygDalin



Category: Logan (2017) - Fandom, Wolverine (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Gore, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, Violence, i too love to suffer, thats what the mature rating is for kids!!, yeah no this one is dark sorry lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 10:22:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11056959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmygDalin/pseuds/AmygDalin
Summary: now you run on home to your mother--you tell her everything's alright. there are no more guns in the valley.





	there's no living with the killing

**Author's Note:**

> yeah uhh this was just an excuse to write angst lmfao  
> i added the scene at the end bc i had seen That One Scene That Was Deleted and We Don't Discuss That and i couldn't help myself  
> anyways this is a gift for a good friend (it's super super late but he knows who he is :') ) and i hope y'all enjoy the suffering i endured whilst writing this

“I need help.” 

Caliban opened his mouth then shut it, pulled the phone away from his ear, glanced around the empty lot, stared down at the phone incredulously, then placed it back on his ear. “Where did you get this number?” He asked, but he was cut off by the gritty, tired voice snapping at him impatiently from the other end.

“Are you going to help me or not? If not, stop wasting my time. I'll put the pay elsewhere.”

A little miffed, Caliban replied, “I’ll help you as soon as you tell me--”

“The Wolverine.”

Caliban blinked. This guy was out of his goddamn mind. “Sorry?”

“Ever heard of him?”

Caliban spluttered. “No? What does this have to do with anythi--”

“Perfect. You've got the job. Meet at the corner of the old booze store in the town you're nearest. Do not bring any personal belongings except what you really need.”

“How do you know where I’m--”

He had already hung up. The pale mutant glanced around the dark lot nervously, trying to find someone, anyone, who could be watching him this late at night. The stars peppering the pitch black sky above seemed to be mocking him. He stuffed his phone in his pocket.

An hour later, Caliban was climbing into the back of a black, military grade limo, a man up front barely checking to see if he was even in the vehicle before he was pulling away from the booze store. With his battered bag tucked between his legs, his goggles, hat, and poncho sitting on the seat beside him, his alabaster skin and wide blue eyes, tinged pink around the edges, he was sure he looked more like a crackhead than a tracker. 

A tracker that had once led the enemy to mutants that would only be killed as soon as they were found. A tracker that would only be forced to keep tracking as soon as the enemy had found one flock of mutants, eager to keep destroying and ravaging and killing an entire subdivision until no one remained. 

He still remembered the screams. He still remembered the torture, the enemy forcing him into the sun, listening to his begging and cries for help and shrieks that shredded his vocal cords as the sunlight blistered and burnt his skin and cooked his flesh until it was charred. 

He didn't have a choice.

Caliban squeezed his eyes shut and buried his head in his hands. 

“Hey. Bub. I didn’t hire you to feel sorry for yourself.” The man up front was blunt. Caliban pressed his lips together. He paused, then he continued, his voice low. “I didn't hire you to track. I hired you because I need help.” He paused to cough into his fist. Caliban caught a whiff of whiskey and...something else. He couldn't put a finger on it. He could see, in the dim light, the reddened skin on his knuckles. 

“Help with what, exactly?” Caliban asked slowly. His eyes fell to the brown paper bags at the front of the limo; some were crinkled and torn, outlining the shapes of beer and scotch bottles, others were brand new. He imagined the man did some shopping at the liquor store, their little rendezvous point. 

The man chuckled. It made the hairs on the back of Caliban’s neck stand up. “I guess you could say it's more of a nursing job than anything else. And it's nice to have another nose. Mine’s getting a bit worn out, if you could imagine. Since you're a tracker mutant, it’s helpful to have you because you can smell farther than I can, as well.”

Caliban couldn't hold back his scoff. “So you want me to nurse _and_ be a guard dog.”

“The nurse part, yeah. The guard dog part, not so much. You're more of a bloodhound. Leave the-- _guard dog_ \--shit up to me. The people on my ass _could_ and _would_ snap you like a twig.”

The pale mutant stiffened then said angrily, “You never said that I’d be in danger for this job.”

“You aren't,” the man snapped back. His shoulders hiked up slightly. “Not if I can help it.”

Taken aback by the comment, Caliban was quiet for a long moment. “Caliban. That's my n--”

The man interrupted, “I know.” Then, as if he had mulled over whether to respond or not, he added, “Logan. Logan Howlett. And the old man is Charles Xavier, for future reference. He's...a friend of mine.”

“The one I’ll be taking care of.”

The man--Logan Howlett, why did that name sound familiar?--nodded. “The one we’ll be taking care of, yes.”

The rest of the car ride was in silence, and Caliban made sure to put on his gear before he fell asleep. It was hot as hell in the limo because the air conditioning was broken, and it was worse with his gear on, but he’d rather be a couple of degrees hotter than burnt to a crisp.

Thus went the first meeting between Logan and Caliban.  
~*~  
Something was wrong. Caliban knew that before he even opened his eyes.

He could smell something off. It smelled like rusted metal and blood. It didn't smell like Logan--musky and piney with a touch of the burn of alcohol--or like Charles--green like plants and oaky and the tiniest hint of dirt--or like the house, which was a combination of the three of them. 

It smelled familiar; it smelled foreign, too. It smelled like danger.

Caliban shot up in bed, cold sweat beginning to bead on his head, eyes wide as he took in the soft light of early morning. The sunlight was breaching a crack in the curtains on the far wall, nowhere near him, but he was careful to avoid getting near the ray as he gathered up his clothing, got dressed (while he wasn't as vulnerable to sunlight inside a building or a vehicle, the sunlight still stung his bare skin, and it was always better to be safe rather than sorry), and approached the window. 

He recognized the scent. He never wanted to smell it again, and yet, it was filling his nostrils, making him sick to his stomach. He clutched at his stomach, chewing on his bottom lip as his brows drew together.

Caliban peered out of the window, then he shrank back, clamping a hand over his mouth. No. No. This couldn't be happening. He left this behind him years ago. Why was it coming back now, damn it, of all times?

Logan, though his sense of smell was far from superior to Caliban’s own, must’ve smelled it too, for the front door opened and slammed shut. He was in the room just off of the front room, so he could see Logan striding out and standing, his body tense, in front of the house.

A sleek black truck with darkened windows and a cover on the bed--the source of the scent, Caliban knew, because it heightened the buzzing in his head exponentially--slowed to a stop. The engine was cut off. Silence stretched for moments on end.

And then the door opened.

“You're not welcome here,” Logan barked, his hands balling into fists. He stood his ground even as a man, donning yellow-lensed sunglasses and sporting a mechanical hand, slid from the vehicle. He was smirking.

“Aw, well, that's not very nice.” A shudder started in Caliban’s lower back and climbed all the way up his back. He didn't know this man, but there was connection made in the back of his mind. 

Transigen. That was what he smelled.

A low growl built in Logan’s throat. “I’m not a very nice person,” he said through gritted teeth.

The man laughed, throwing his head back. A skull tattoo at the base of his throat seemed to grin along with whatever the man was laughing at. “You say that as if I don't know that. You’re the Wolverine!” Caliban saw Logan’s breath hitch at that. “You’re nature’s killing machine!”

The man took a step closer. Logan wavered in place uneasily. “So tell me. Why is someone like _you_ hiding out at a place like _this_?” His voice lowered. “Makes me think you're hiding something.”

“You should leave before I hang you from my rafters with your own intestines.”

The man ignored Logan’s threat. The next thing he said chilled Caliban’s blood and had him grasping at the windowsill, suddenly feeling faint. “Heard through the grapevine you have a tracker now. Where is he?”

“ _Leave_. Now.”

“Mm. I think he worked with us, at one point. If you’ll just let me take him, I’ll leave, won't make a fuss. I'll let you to your drug and whore habits. Easy as pie if you’d hand the tracker over.”

Logan hesitated. Caliban could feel bile building up in the back of his throat. He was going to give him away, just like that. He had only been working with the man for a month, damn it. But he knew Logan well enough that he was unpredictable, to an extent. 

What would happen to him if he was taken back to Transigen though? He’d be beaten and tortured, that was sure. And that was the best outcome.

Logan was going to hand him over. Logan was going to hand him over, and Caliban wouldn’t get a second chance at escaping, and he’d be chained up like a dog, and he’d get burnt and scratched and hit and--

“You’re not alone.” Logan tilted his head up, sniffed the air once, then lowered his head to give the man standing in front of him a withering glare. “And you’re a filthy _fucking_ liar.”

_Snikt_.

Caliban blinked then gaped at the sight of three long claws, extending from each hand, glinting in the sunlight. That…was new. He hadn't seen those before. The man in front of Logan stumbled backwards, fear etched into his features. 

“Now, let’s not do anything that you’d regret.”

“Oh no, I won't.” There was a grim tone to his words, but Caliban could hear the smile in Logan’s voice.

He swung his right fist, and the razor sharp claws clipped the air in front of the man. If the man hadn't taken a step backwards, his face would've been shorn into ribbons. The man cried out in shock, tripping over his own feet and falling back on his ass in the sand. He scrambled backwards as Logan approached him, predator tracking down prey.

Then there was a new scent--barely discernible above Transigen, but it was there--and Caliban wanted to scream at Logan to _get out of there, get away, you're going to get hurt or killed or both_ \--

A crack broke the air, and Logan stumbled backwards, shouting obscenities. His left shoulder now had a bullet lodged in it. Caliban rose and pressed his hand against the window, an agonized and choked protest leaving his lips.

The man was now pulling himself into his truck, slamming the door and turning the engine over. Caliban could see him muttering things under his breath, lips moving rapidly, as he tore away from the house, speeding towards where the entrance (and exit, in this case) to their little safe haven was. There were five men positioned behind the truck and were now approaching Logan, donning military grade gear and semi automatic rifles. They must've been hiding in the truck bed or the cabin of the truck, Caliban thought in a daze. Neither Logan nor Caliban had seen them.

The bullet seemed to not have fazed Logan. He straightened and rolled his shoulders. “You shouldn't have come here,” was all he snarled before he leapt--quite literally, he _leapt_ \--forward and buried his claws in the chest of one man and the eye sockets of another.

One beheaded. Two stabbed in the eyes. One gutted, internal organs spilling out on the sand, and the other’s throat cut. Logan had gotten shot twice more, once in the thigh and another in the stomach. Blood stained the sand, both Logan’s own and the soldiers. It was quickly drying from the bright red to an almost black maroon.

The overwhelming scent of it triggered memories of Transigen and how they forced him to be the cause of so many mutants’ murders, blood often being spilt in front of him like this, except it wasn't in self defense, and Caliban leaned over and retched on the floor, shaking like a leaf, eyes closed tightly against the reality of it all. Tears choked him, and he brought a trembling hand up to wipe at his mouth weakly.

He heard the door kicked open. Almost painfully, Caliban straightened. He winced at the sight of his own vomit--mostly bile and stomach acid; his throat was already beginning to hurt because of it--then turned to face the bedroom door. He could clean it up later. One shaky step after another, he gradually made his way to the worn oak, and he pushed it open. It creaked quietly.

Outside, Caliban could hear Logan muttering under his breath. He peeked around the door, saw Logan limping in through the front door, not bothering to shut it, clutching his shoulder as his face screwed up in agony, and he made the decision to go and assist Logan. He was bleeding profusely. He’d be out cold if he didn't put a stop to it immediately.

Caliban rushed forward, hands already stretched out to help Logan to the kitchen table, but he froze when the other mutant growled out, “Don't.” Hesitantly, he retracted his hands. His eyes flickered to the blood staining Logan’s knuckles, where his claws had been just moments before. Whether it was his own or one of the poor bastards laying out in the sun, Caliban would never know.

Logan gimped to the table and sat down heavily on the bench. “Get me the medkit and a bowl,” he said. He wiped his face tiredly. He didn't even seem bothered the fact he had been shot. He looked more annoyed than anything else. Without warning, Logan began to strip his dirt and blood stained shirt and jeans off. A wave of guilt washed over the pale mutant briefly when he caught his eyes lingering far too long on the chiseled form of Logan, taking in the dark hair dusting his chest and abs, the way his muscles rippled the slightest even with the most menial of movements. Caliban started and lurched to find the medkit and a bowl when Logan snapped, “You gonna stare or get me what I need?”

Logan waved the medkit away when Caliban had offered it first to him (he figured the bowl was for any bloodied rags or bandages Logan used) and instead grabbed the bowl from Caliban’s hand. He cocked a brow at the pale mutant, allowing a terse silence to spread. “You sure you wanna watch this?” He finally asked, almost with a touch of...playfulness? It caught Caliban off guard. He had almost been killed, and yet, he was on the verge of cracking jokes?

Caliban set the medkit on the table then crossed his arms. “Don't suppose it'll be much of a show, but I should probably stay to see whether you choke or not,” he said back, slightly clipped. Logan chuckled at that and shook his head.

Concentration crossed Logan’s face, then, and he held the bowl just under his injured shoulder. His breathing ragged, he bared his teeth and groaned lowly as, if by force alone, the bullet was pushed from his flesh.

_Clink_. A slight feeling of horror and awe filled Caliban as he watched the bullet fall into the bowl, speckling the inside with blood. He repeated the actions with the bullets buried in his abdomen and thigh, and he handed the bowl with the bloodied bullets to Caliban. 

Gingerly, Caliban placed the bowl on the table. He took the medkit, opened it, and plucked the rolls of gauze and bandages out, setting them on the table before pulling the alcohol pads out. He could see Logan eyeing him warily out of the corner of his eye. It made his skin itch. He wished that Logan would be looking at him on different terms.

He shook his head and cleared his throat. “You need those wounds cleaned. They’ll get infected--” 

A scratchy laugh bubbled from Logan’s throat. Caliban, indignant, snapped his gaze from the medical supplies to the other man, narrowing his eyes defensively. “I don't need these cleaned, bub. Waste of your time, trust me.”

“Try me,” Caliban replied, ripping open one of the alcohol pads. The smell nearly knocked him over; he always hated the astringence of sterilizing alcohol. It reminded him too much of...well. He bent down so he was somewhat at the same height as Logan; his eyes flickered to each of the individual wounds, and, though the bleeding had begun to slow, he was sure that they'd only get worse if they weren't disinfected. As Caliban went to press the pad against the wound at Logan’s shoulder, Logan’s hand shot up with surprising speed. He stifled a yelp as his wrist was caged in Logan’s grasp; wriggling his wrist, he tried to free himself as his eyes met Logan’s wildly.

Another bout of stifling silence spread. They searched each other’s eyes, dull grey blue skittering over deep brown; Caliban’s expression somewhat troubled, Logan’s expression one of pained indifference. Caliban swallowed hard. The pad in his fingers trembled slightly.

Logan leaned in. “You don't need to do this. I promise,” he murmured. His lips was a hair’s breadth away from Caliban’s. The breath ghosting over his lips was intoxicating; Caliban failed to suppress a tiny shudder.

He bit his lip. “I...I would feel better if I--”

“I’m sure you would.” His tone was teasing, and surely he wasn't imagining that Logan’s voice dropped a full octave.

Caliban furrowed his brows, breath beginning to come sporadically. He could feel a rare color creeping up his neck and across his cheeks. 

This was crazy. They shouldn't be doing this.

Caliban blinked, and he frowned, eyes drifting away. It was then that he began to really see the light scars covering Logan’s chest and arms and face; he said nothing on the matter. Instead, he yanked his hand away from Logan and squeezed the pad a touch tighter in his fingers. “This is going to sting a little,” was all he said before he placed the pad to Logan’s wound.

Logan hissed and arched away from the pad, baring his teeth at Caliban. “That _hurts_ , asshole,” he growled.

“You get shot, and you say that a little bit of alcohol hurts. That's incredible.”

“The alcohol I actually _enjoy_ \--son of a _bitch_ , get that shit away from me--doesn't hurt like this does.”

Logan griped; Caliban cleaned the wounds and bandaged them. As the pale mutant was cleaning up the mess, Logan sat in a sour quietness that Caliban could only describe as a pout. 

He was mistaken.

“I never told you.”

“Hm?” Caliban looked up from where he was replacing the medkit, now considerably lighter. The bandages wrapped around Logan seemed to soak in what little light was in their home.

“About the...claws.” He looked away. “The healing thing. The murderous rages I can go into.”

“Er…” Caliban glanced at the opposite wall, awkwardly rubbing at his neck. Too little too late to explain now, he supposed. “It's...okay. We can talk about this later.”

Logan shook his head. He examined his bloodied knuckles with a mild look. “The reason why I asked you before I hired you, if you knew about the Wolverine…” He pressed his lips together. “People want me gone, or people want me as their weapon. There's no inbetween. Everyone knows the Wolverine. That's...not what I want to be. It's never been what I wanted to be.” He covered his eyes with his hand, a low sigh passing his lips. “I’ve killed so many goddamn people. I’ve killed _bad_ people, sure. Just look out there,” he jerked his head toward the still open door--the light was slowly creeping back as noon shifted to evening--with a sneer, “and you'll see.

“But I’ve been the cause of many good people’s deaths too. Either directly or indirectly. They haunt me. I don't sleep well because they're in my dreams. I drink my days away because I can't bear being sober and alone with my thoughts. I just want it to be over.” Logan slouched and added under his breath, “But it's not like you don't know. I guess.”

Nothing was said for a long moment. Caliban was chilled just the slightest by Logan’s final comment. Did he know? Did he know about Caliban’s past? Surely he did. If he knew his name the day they met, before they had even interacted, then there was a good damn chance that he knew.

Caliban should've comforted him. He should've said, “It's alright, everything was going to be okay” or “You don't need to beat yourself up over this” or even “It's not your fault”. 

But they were lies. Caliban knew they were lies, and Logan would know they were lies. They both had brought nothing but death with their “talents”--though Logan was a bit more to the point with it--and there was no point in acting like it was okay when it was damn well not.

It wasn't okay, and it'd never be okay.

Caliban just said, “You need to rest.” And with that, he ordered Logan to bed. No arguments were made, and Caliban didn't see Logan again until dinner. 

He waited until Logan had stumbled out of sight to his bedroom to go check on Charles, bringing him a tray of food (pills rolling about on a small dish) and a couple new books for him to read.  
~*~  
“Your hands are shaking.” A statement, based on an entirely true observation. Caliban’s eyes shifted from the trembling fingertips barely touching the warm mug of tea to the face of the man that owned said fingers. 

His lips were pressed into a tight line, brows drawn, head bowed. It took him a moment to respond. “So they are.” His voice was gravelly, weighed down from lack of sleep and stress and whatever...whatever _sickness_ had befallen him. The dark circles underneath his eyes made for a haunting image. 

Caliban gazed at Logan for just a moment longer before turning his head away and pulling himself off of the bench he was sat on. He busied himself with tidying the small space that constituted the kitchen--if one could call it that--replacing mugs and silverware to their rightful places, wiping up the water that had spilled when Logan had tried to pour his own mug but failed because of the tremors in his hands, etcetera, etcetera. 

He tried to ignore the nearly empty bottles of liquor scattered around the counters (where did he keep finding the hellish stuff, Caliban wondered, perhaps he has a secret stash). He tried to ignore the bloody bandages haphazardly stuffed in the trash, both fresh and old. He tried to ignore the fact that Logan wasn't okay, he hadn't been okay for a very long time, and he tried to ignore the fact that most people would be dead and gone by eighty; they would've had a family and a wonderful life and passed on peacefully; but Logan would never experience that, he hadn't ever experienced it, and he drank booze and he hurt himself because he didn't want this anymore, he didn't want to live, and Caliban could smell it on him that he wasn't healing. 

He wasn't healing. He dug his fingernails into his palms. 

A shattering sound broke the stifling silence. Caliban turned around sharply to find Logan’s mug in a hundred pieces on the floor, his tea slowly spreading in the cracks and crevices. Logan himself was staring at his hands, his entire body tense. The shaking had gotten worse. He hadn't been able to pick up his mug. 

Slowly, Caliban picked up a rag and approached Logan cautiously. He could hear him breathing raggedly; the spike in his scent told Caliban that he was pissed. _Really_ pissed. He knelt beside the mess, carefully plucking the shards of mug up and tossing them into the trash before wiping up the tea. 

When Caliban finally got the nerve to look up at Logan again, he was met with gritted teeth and narrowed eyes. “Don't do that,” he spat.

Caliban tilted his head slightly before clambering to his feet. He stood a full two feet over Logan when Logan was sitting and he was standing. “Don't do what?” He asked, tossing the tea soaked towel onto the table before folding his arms.

Logan barked out a humorless laugh. “The pity look. When I asked for your help a year ago, I asked for help, not for some fucking useless pity.”

Annoyance flashed over Caliban’s face. “Did you know, you're not as slick as you think you are. Maybe you could've bypassed this whole accident if you would've gone without the whiskey in your tea. If it didn't cause the shaking, the booze certainly didn't help your case.” He leaned in, his lips curled in distaste. “Why do you do this to yourself?” He questioned, voice dripping with disdain, and, yes, perhaps a bit of pity.

He would've then turned around, thrown the rag into the laundry, and called it a night. But nothing ever seems to go according to plan.

Before he could pull away, Logan had a fistful of his shirt, pushing his face into Caliban’s, lips pulled up in a feral snarl. “If I were you,” he started, his voice low and dangerous, “I’d never say that again. You have no clue, no fucking _idea_ , what it's like to be me. You haven't seen your friends die, one after another. You haven't mauled anyone so badly that they're beyond recognition. You haven't wanted to off yourself since day one, but you can't, because you fucking heal yourself over and over and over again, so you try to rot yourself from the inside out with booze and drugs and whatever the fuck else you can get your hands on. I don't need…” 

His voice broke, and he faltered, his face falling. Logan swallowed hard, and he tried again, suddenly very tired. “I don't need your pity. Please. Leave me alone, Caliban.” He dropped his hand from Caliban’s now crumpled shirt, guilt flashing over his features briefly.

In the dim light of the lamp hanging over the table, Caliban could see the agony in his face, the glazed over look in his eyes. His breath was so warm against his face, strong with the scent of whiskey and tea and perhaps tobacco, he couldn't quite tell at the moment. He was certainly intoxicated, but not shitfaced. That wasn't possible.

So Caliban was a bit surprised when Logan cupped the side of his face, his other hand gathering both of his wrists in a loose hold, and rested his forehead against Caliban’s. 

Caliban swallowed hard then finally replied to Logan, his voice soft. “I could never leave you alone. I’m too afraid of what you'd do to yourself.”

Logan searched Caliban’s face for a long moment, smiled tiredly, then pulled Caliban down as he leant up and oh god what was he doing and...oh. 

The hair on Logan’s face tickled his chin and lips; of course, Caliban could still feel his hand trembling against his cheek, but it was muted, quieted by the feeling of Logan’s lips moving against his. After several shocked thoughts crossed his mind, Caliban started to reciprocate the kiss, his eyes fluttering shut. Logan’s tongue pushed into his mouth, and Caliban could feel himself starting to get the hang of it, the whole kissing thing. It felt...lovely. Fun, yes, and lovely. 

Logan’s tongue felt warm and soft against his own, and Caliban moaned softly at the little flutters of heat starting to course through his body. The taller mutant felt his legs trembling; he sat down on the bench Logan was sat on, and not once did Logan let up from the equal parts bruising and tender kiss. 

Before Caliban could lose his nerve, he pulled away just the slightest--had a whine escaped Logan at that?--only to bite down on his bottom lip lovingly (lovingly? Where had that come from?), his teeth barely digging in. The low growl that was elicited from Logan thrilled every nerve in Caliban, every cell in his blood. Logan’s hand slowly slid from Caliban’s cheek down to cup the side of his neck and finally rested on his sternum, near his racing heart.

He wanted to stay like that forever. 

They pulled apart, and in the silence that followed, Caliban took the time to look over Logan’s face. He was flushed a little, breathing hard, staring right back at him. God, did it feel good knowing that Caliban had a hand in doing that to him. 

Then the thoughts that had occurred moments before Logan had dropped his mug came rushing back. Caliban squeezed his eyes shut and turned away, suddenly feeling ill. “Logan...what are we even doing?” He whispered. He gently tugged his hands away from Logan’s loose grip. They were employer and employee, essentially. They were constantly living in fear of being found out and dragged off to be hung or stabbed or shot or experimented on. They were trying to take care of an old man, one of the world’s most dangerous mutants to be exact, with a terrible case of dementia and an even worse case of stubbornness. 

They couldn't afford a relationship, considering the factors. A pang of sorrow stabbed through Caliban at the thought. He pushed it away, into the back of his mind.

The confusion that fogged Logan’s expression was replaced by a pang of sorrow then soured by something akin to anger. He snatched his hands away from Caliban; the pale mutant could hear him trying to control his suddenly ragged breathing. He stood and stepped away from Logan, clenching his hands together behind his back, his gaze shifting from the lamp above the table, the dying plants in the window, the tea-soaked rag, the little bits of clutter littering their living area. Anywhere but Logan. 

“We...we can't. Not now.” _Probably not ever._

“Why not?” Logan’s voice was harsh. 

“Because...I…I think it's for the best.” Caliban winced internally at his own words. It wasn't even an answer, let alone a good one.

Logan seemed to agree. “Why not?” He asked again, quieter, but it didn't go without notice that his own reply had a sharper edge to it.

Caliban swallowed hard, then replied, tremulously, “It’s not because of you--well, it's partially because of you, but--no no no, that's not what I meant--!” He happened to look over just as Logan’s eyes widened the slightest then narrowed with his snarl. 

“I knew it.” Logan stood, kicking the bench back. His hands were balled into fists at his side. He was seething. “Already making your condolences for old man Logan, huh?”

The other man blinked owlishly then shook his head, his arms now crossed in front of his body. He often did that if he was anxious. “If you would just let me _finish_ \--”

_Snikt._

_Crack!_

Caliban watched in astonishment as Logan buried the claws on one hand into the old oak table. His shoulders were heaving. He could see the blood beginning to bead on his knuckles, sliding down his fingers onto the wood below them. 

The silence that hung between them for ages was heady and dark; Caliban had so much to say, but the lack of words said enough.

What felt like minutes later, Logan was reluctantly removing his claws from the now trashed table. His claws retracted. 

“If you would've let me finish before your anger got the best of you,” Logan’s head dropped the slightest at this, “I would've said that it’d be...the _safest_...if we didn't pursue a relationship.”

Shame was emanating off of Logan in waves. Caliban was expecting him to sit down again and wish to be left in peace or perhaps to brush past him to busy himself with making a drink, but neither outcome came to be. 

Instead, Logan shocked Caliban by mumbling, “I’m going for a drive”, grabbing his coat and keys, stuffing bandages and ointment in his pockets, and sweeping towards the front door. It opened, slammed, and left a ragged hole in the thick silence of the room. Caliban heard the limo’s engine start up and rev away, and that was when he allowed himself to drop his head into his hands, teeth gritted, as tears rose and choked him.

It always ended like this.

Logan didn't even have a _shred_ of knowledge of how much Caliban loathed himself, of how much he wished that he, too, would just--just _stop_ existing because of the weight he held on his shoulders; the children and innocent mutants who were mutilated and killed because he himself had led Transigen to them unwittingly and...and…

Caliban dropped to his knees, head still buried in his hands, and let himself cry, heaving and sobbing and making a complete mess of himself, for the first time in weeks.

He ignored the shards of Logan’s mug digging into his knees. He must've missed them somehow. Oh well.

He’d take care of it later.  
~*~  
His mouth tasted of metal.

Not like blood. Blood was more on the rustier tasting side, and he had had his share of tasting his own blood. This metal taste was more like he had stuck a metal spoon in his mouth but had been sucking on it for too long. Yes. It was _that_ kind of metal taste.

Caliban curled up on himself, eyes staring, unseeing, at the wall across him in his cage. The van hit a large pothole, sending his head flying backwards to hit against the wall behind him with a _crack_. The world wobbled, darkened, then evened out.

Everything hurt. He hurt so badly. He wished they would just kill him and get it over with.

But that'd never happen. Not now, not in a million years. How much longer did he have? He didn't know. The days all blended together at this point.

How could they not? His skin was blistered and burnt and charred by the sunlight, he was bruised all over, his lip was healing over a sore, and he had a black eye. All for the sake of having information pried from him about Logan, Laura, and Charles. They'd even went as far to...to _electrocute_ him. The bitter taste of metal rose in his mouth again at the memory, and he would've thrown up had he had anything left to vomit.

He was sure it’d been weeks since he'd been kidnapped by the man with the metal hand--the one who threatened Logan all that time ago (perhaps a year? More? He couldn't remember)--and almost a month since his kiss with Logan.

Logan. Laura. Charles. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Hey! You useless albino!” A well placed kick knocked the wind out of his lungs. The only reaction he showed outwardly was to open and shift his eyes warily to the man who had kicked him. “Where’s the girl?”

His bottom lip trembled slightly.

Logan Laura Charles Logan Laura Charles Logan Laura Charles _Logan Laura Charles LOGAN RUN I CAN’T SAVE YOU--_

Caliban took in a rattling breath, rasped, “Gas station. Few miles away,” and let his eyes flutter shut once again as his body slumped to the ground. 

A half empty water bottle crinkled as it was thrown into his cage with him; a sick sort of reward for being a beaten dog showing off his tricks.

He didn't move to get it. 

He knew that he should drink it while he could--after all, the info he had given about the trio had long went cold hours ago, they were miles and miles away from the gas station now--but he didn't even glance in its direction.

Caliban took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. 

Best to enjoy the dull, throbbing pain before it was made into blinding, stabbing agony.  
~*~  
Now was his chance. 

He grasped the grenades firmly, eyes narrowed with derision and disgust at the cronies in the vehicle with him. 

This was for Logan. This was for Laura, for Charles, for the family who had just gotten murdered brutally and painfully, for the innocent mutants he had been the demise of, for anyone he could buy some time for escaping by doing this one act.

He'd never see any of them again. Logan thought him to be dead. Logan wasn't the mourning type. 

Caliban knew this wasn't going to matter much at all in the end, but if it allowed Laura and Logan to get away and find a safe place for the time being, he was okay with dying. He was okay with it. He had been wanting to for years, now. 

Logan had made him happy. He felt an odd sort of peace. Caliban glanced at the monitors in the van one last time, trained his eyes back on the other men, and smiled grimly.

“Beware the light.”

And he pulled the pins.  
~*~  
He couldn't feel anything from the waist down. He knew his legs had been blown off; he knew that he was missing large chunks of his skin, and he knew that that horrible smell of something cooking was himself.

How was he still alive? How…

Everything was blindingly agonizing, but it wasn't at the same time, somehow.

He crawled, trying to get somewhere, anywhere, away from the burning mass of the van and the mangled corpses of the cronies.

In his blurred vision, he saw the unmistakable outline of none other than Logan. He was holding the girl…Lauren? Lou? Laura...that was her name…

He was looking at Caliban. Caliban looked right back, his vision starting to blacken at the edges. Did he know? Did Logan know that Caliban did that for him? 

Caliban was starting to lose feeling of...everything. His face, fingers...mind.

He kept his eyes on Logan for as long as he could, then, exhausted, he inevitably felt himself lowering his eyes, then his head.

Black swam into his vision.

He hoped that Logan knew.


End file.
